A Thief or Two
by Deb3
Summary: You never know who you might find on a jury.


Rating: PG

Disclaimer: The two characters you will recognize are not mine.

Spoilers: None.

A/N: Here's a short fic in honor of a rainy day. I'm off today, but since I'm just getting over bronchitis, I decided not to work on farm projects outside in a downpour. Please note that this little fic is several months old, predating any courtroom material you may have seen recently on CSIM, and my "verdict is in" line was written long before Hell Night aired. I hadn't really planned on sharing this story, just did it for myself as a change of perspective exercise. This one, however, refused to go away. Usually, on the stuff I write for myself but don't intend to actually write down, I finish it, admire it for a bit, then hit the mental delete key. Thief refused to be deleted. It's stubbornly kept rattling around up there, banging into More Deadly, Photo Finish, and various WIPs like a mental pinball game. Therefore, I resort to the other method of getting a completed fic out of the way, which is writing it down. Hope you enjoy this one. If nothing else, it is an interesting perspective.

(H/C)

"The jury, passing on the prisoner's life,

May in the sworn twelve have a thief or two

Guiltier than him they try."

William Shakespeare, Measure for Measure

(H/C)

On the first day of the trial, he had sat as stiffly as a child called to the principal's office for the first time, hands at his sides, back ramrod straight, the picture of attention. His muscles had been aching from the effort before the day was half over, but he was determined to miss nothing. On the second day, he discovered that he could sit back in his chair and still listen. On the third day, his eyes had started to wander, even while his ears stayed alertly focused.

By now, he knew the principals in the trial by heart. The defendant sat next to his lawyer and studied his hands. The hands reacted to the evidence, clenching, relaxing, twisting around each other. The lawyer must have told him not to look at the witnesses, and indeed, his face as he studied his hands was a picture of innocent, confident, only faintly-interested attention. They had probably rehearsed that look, counsel and defendant. The undisciplined hands gave him away, though, and listening to the evidence, watching those hands, the juror could well believe that this man had been an abusive drunk who had killed his wife and daughter.

The defense attorney had his hands, like the rest of him, under absolute, professional control. The confident smile was a piece of clothing, no doubt put on along with his suit that morning. His eyes were always focused on the witnesses, showing either mocking disbelief or utter agreement, depending on what they were saying at the moment.

The prosecuting attorney was younger, more passionate, not yet experienced enough to be callous. He hadn't yet learned, as his counterpart had, that passionate argument or examination in court should be a switch, flicked on and off at will, never reaching any more deeply into the soul than the edge of the voice. His witnesses reacted well to him, presenting their evidence with confidence, relaxing as much as their situation would permit, but their eyes kept sliding over to the other bench, where the defense attorney sat with an expression of pleasant disbelief, politely and obviously waiting for his turn.

Those were the witnesses of coincidence, the neighbors, the family, and coworkers who had been pulled into this case by chance association. None of them were used to court. There were also the professionals, the police and other experts, for whom court was a day at the office.

On the fourth day, there was a woman sitting in the area set aside for waiting witnesses, and the juror caught himself debating which type of witness she was. For the first time since he had started this mini game with himself, he couldn't quite decide. She looked professional. Her long blonde hair was firmly captured in a bun, without even a wisp escaping. Her three-piece suit was utterly business-like and appropriate beyond what most of the witnesses of coincidence had available. This looked like it had been bought specifically for testifying in court. On superficial outward appearance, she had to be an expert witness, if not a cop.

Her hands, however, gave her away. They weren't speaking as loudly as the defendant's, but they were clasped in front of her so tightly that her knuckles turned white. It was as if she desperately needed to hold onto something and could find nothing else available but herself. Her shoulders were as tense as the juror's had been on the first day, and her eyes were riveted to the witness on the stand. Not once did she look at the defendant. That was rare; most witnesses couldn't resist the opportunity to study his back while waiting, either in disbelief, confusion, or professional assessment. This woman, however, never even glanced at that side of the room. There might have been a wall splitting the courtroom in half.

One half of the double doors into the courtroom opened silently. The man glided in on soundless feet, and the juror only noticed him at first because the judge had glanced briefly at the opening door, then looked back at the witness. She recognized this man.

He was a cop if the juror had ever seen one. His tall, lean frame absolutely oozed quiet authority. The badge barely visible beneath his jacket wasn't needed. For all his presence, though, he could ease into a room without disrupting its atmosphere, and as he passed each row of seats, the occupants looked at him, startled, and wondered how he had appeared there. He stopped at the row behind the prosecuting attorney and hesitated for the first time in his driven march up the aisle, waiting to be noticed, waiting for permission.

The woman waiting to testify noticed him, and her look of surprised gratitude was unmistakable. She relaxed slightly, her hands easing their death grip. The man, reading the unspoken invitation well enough, slid into the seat next to her. He did not take her hand, though he looked for a moment like he longed to seize it, cradle it, protect it from the world. Instead, he put one hand lightly on her arm, letting the warmth of human contact flow through. Her hands slowly released, and her fixed gaze on the witness broke. The juror could see her shooting calculating glances at the man, but the eyes always darted back away. She could not stare at him, lest he notice, but every one of those glances shouted that she wanted to. She appreciated the moral support at the moment, but what she wanted from this man was hardly moral support.

Watching those two sitting side by side, the connection obvious but the chasm visible, the juror abruptly lost track of the evidence for the first time in the trial. How many times had he sat like that with his someone, longing to move closer, prohibited by either public or doubt? Seeing how bilateral it was with these two, he suddenly found himself wondering. Did she want him as much as he wanted her? Was she also held back by fears? He abruptly wished for an observer's eyes to watch the two of them together, to tell him if she felt the same. Some third opinion, some evidence, some proof. Anything more than just his feelings to go on. Right. He knew no third party, no deus ex machina would fall into their lives to sort out what he was too much of a coward to sort out himself. The chances of that were about as great as the chances of him standing up right now in the jurors' box and shouting to these two, "The verdict is in! Look at the evidence, both of you! You're both guilty. Time to move on to the sentencing phase."

"Calleigh Duquesne, CSI." The prosecuting attorney called his next witness. The golden-haired woman took a deep breath, squaring her shoulders, and the man did suddenly take her hand, giving it a squeeze, a wordless vote of support and professional confidence. She appreciated it, but what she wanted from this man was hardly support and professional confidence. She returned the squeeze briefly – too briefly – and stood, walking to the stand.

Somehow, the juror hadn't realized how short she was while she was sitting down. Now, her size became obvious, but the power and determination in every one of those short strides was fierce. The badge under her jacket was now visible. She took the stand and, for the first time, looked directly at the defendant, as if exorcising a ghost from her testimony. She then turned back to the prosecutor, and her entire attitude was professional, calm, competent. Once in a while, her eyes would find the blue eyes in the next row behind the lawyers, touch them briefly, then look back to her questioner. Other than that, she was the picture of poise.

"You examined the rifle marked exhibit B in your capacity as ballistics expert, correct?"

"Yes."

"What were your conclusions from the evidence?"

"The rifle is a .22, the same caliber as the weapon that shot Mrs. Hawkins. The bullet removed from Mrs. Hawkins' head matches test bullets fired from this rifle. The bullet that killed Mrs. Hawkins was fired from this gun."

"Were any fingerprints found on the gun?"

"Only the defendant's fingerprints. Several sets of them, probably left at different times."

"Were you able to reach any other conclusions from the rifle and the victim's wound?"

"Mrs. Hawkins was shot through the right eye, and the bullet entered the brain. The angle of the wound was slightly downward, showing that she was shot either by someone taller than she was or was shot while she was in a kneeling or seated position. She was facing her shooter. The off-center wound suggests that she was shot by someone whose aim was not very precise."

"Such as someone who was drunk?"

"That would be one of the possibilities, yes."

"Thank you, Ms. Duquesne. I'm sure the defense attorney will have some questions for you."

The defense attorney stood, deliberately taking his time, glancing needlessly through papers on the desk. The witness's eyes searched for and found her supporter again. The defense attorney started off softly, like a cat playing with prey before eating it.

"You said, Ms. Duquesne, that the shooter being drunk was only one of the possibilities." His emphasis on said called even her limited conclusion into question.

"That is correct." She forced him to ask the further question.

"What are the other possibilities?"

"The shooter might have been a poor shot anyway. The shot might have been hurried and not carefully aimed."

"Such as someone trying to defend himself against an attacker?"

A jolt of anger straightened her spine, but it never touched her voice. "The distance of the shot was approximately 15 feet. That is far longer than most defense shots in a fight. The shooter certainly had time to aim more carefully, if he was capable of it."

"You said that only the defendant's fingerprints were on the gun? Is it possible that a third party, some intruder, perhaps, handled the gun while wearing gloves?"

"It is possible." Her tone on possible matched his tone on said. The juror couldn't help grinning, and the judge quelled him with a look.

"So it is also consistent with the evidence that an intruder broke into the house, killed the little girl manually, then was caught by the mother and grabbed the defendant's gun off the rack to shoot her and escape. The defendant, returning home from a bar, found his wife and child dead but had nothing to do with their deaths."

"Objection. The defense attorney is addressing the jury, not the witness."

"Sustained. You will have an opportunity for your closing argument later. Limit cross-examination to questions."

The witness stirred, looking at the judge. "Even though it wasn't a question, may I say something to answer that?"

The judge considered it. "You may."

The woman faced the defense attorney with professional, calm dispute. "CSIs went thoroughly over that house. There was no sign of a break-in. No locks forced, no windows broken. There was no trace evidence or any other evidence to suggest an intruder."

"I thought your specialty was ballistics, Ms. Duquesne."

Her steely, level gaze refused to yield. "My specialty is ballistics, but I am trained in all aspects of crime scene processing, and I worked the original crime scene along with my colleagues. There are experts on trace evidence available if you wish to hear more testimony to the facts in this case."

The defense attorney met her eyes for a moment, then turned away, recognizing a wall when he saw one. "No further questions."

The prosecutor stood as the witness exited the stand. "May I approach the bench, Your Honor?"

"You may." He walked to the front of the bench, as did the defense attorney. Their conversation was too low for the public to hear, and the juror found himself looking back at the woman who had just testified. The red-haired man stood as she approached and gave her a smile. Somehow, the juror doubted he smiled often. There were too many lines forming battle scars on that face. Just now, though, he was proud of his coworker (Coworker? Yes, they had the seamless familiarity of long-time coworkers.) and wanted her to know it. He spoke, some jesting phrase about how she had handled the defense attorney, obviously, though the exact comment was unheard from the jurors' box. She replied in kind, with her own smile and a light, almost flirty attitude. He turned away to head back to work, and the juror saw the flicker of uncertainty, pain, and longing that touched her eyes briefly, the visible shadow of her thoughts, then vanished as she started after him, once again the poised professional.

She nearly ran into him. The tall man had stopped abruptly at the edge of the aisle, his head tilted to one side. He was studying the jury. During the conference at the judge's bench, the rest of the courtroom had relaxed, and people were looking around. This man, in turning to leave, had spotted something, but he clearly wasn't sure what it was. Like a dog on a tantalizingly familiar but not quite identified scent, he starting casting, turning back and repeating his motion, somehow making it look casual. Anyone not watching this entire moment intensely would have seen nothing wrong.

His colleague definitely saw something wrong. She touched his arm briefly, and this time, her voice was loud enough to carry. "Horatio?"

He turned back, dropping into his former seat and urging her gently toward hers. "Let's watch the trial a bit longer, okay?"

She studied him like she was analyzing well-known evidence. Abruptly, she went casual herself. She still wasn't sure what was going on, but she trusted him. "Okay." She sat back down.

The conference in front of the judge broke apart, and the prosecutor called his next witness. The juror hardly heard him. He was studying that man, Horatio, studying the alertness and intensity under the calm exterior. Horatio kept stealing sideways glances at the jurors' box without being obvious about it, and the juror tracked them, finally zoning in on the target. Juror number six, the one on the end of the first row. There seemed to be nothing odd about him. A tall, heavy-set man. He was a day trader on the stock market, if memory served. He had a rugged but not unattractive face. The more the juror stared at him, though, the more that face didn't quite look right in some undefined way.

Juror six had not felt Horatio's subtle glances, but he felt his fellow juror's fixed gaze eventually. He looked over, and the one look raised the stakes from something possibly being wrong to something definitely being wrong. His eyes were cold, hard, and suddenly suspicious. This scrutiny made him uneasy, not just in the usual social sense when someone is stared at but in some more sinister way. The question asked by the eyes, "Why are you looking at me?", translated itself instantly into, "How much do you know?"

Juror two wrenched his eyes away from those cold ones and looked back at Horatio. That was a mistake. His fellow juror followed the look effortlessly, and his eyes and Horatio's intensely-observant blue ones locked briefly. Horatio's widened slightly.

The trial had been forgotten in this mini drama, but the bailiff had apparently been asked to get some piece of logged evidence from the evidence table and take it to the witness. He was passing the edge of the juror's box on the way to the evidence table just as juror six and Horatio locked eyes. Juror six surged to his feet and, in one swift motion, had the bailiff's gun. He shot the bailiff in the abdomen, then leaped out of the box while people were still stunned and retreated to place his back firmly against a wall. The gun held steady, sweeping to cover the whole room. "Nobody move."

Horatio had made it to his feet but no farther. He looked down at the bailiff, who was groaning on the floor, then raised his eyes again. His hand clenched as if around the familiar feel of his weapon, but he knew it wasn't there. Under Florida law, guns are prohibited in courtrooms except for the judge and anybody, like the bailiff, given a personal exemption by her. Juror two looked at the judge, wondering if she carried. Obviously, she didn't, but if looks could kill, juror six would have already had his death wound.

"Joseph Montgomery," Horatio said, his voice perfectly calm in this situation somehow. "Only that's probably not your name now, is it?"

Joseph Montgomery. Where had the juror heard that name before?

Juror six glared at him. "My name's not the only thing that's changed. How did you recognize me?"

"The eyes," Horatio replied. "Plastic surgery will give you a new face, but you still have the same eyes. I was looking through some old wanted files just last night from Georgia on another case and ran into your picture. Took me a while to put it together, though."

The judge spoke. "Joseph Montgomery. Bank robbery ten years ago, two people killed. Totally disappeared." She glared at him. "Only you had plastic surgery and settled down for a quiet life in Miami to enjoy your take."

"You won't be enjoying it much longer," Horatio added. "If that bailiff dies, you're up to three murders, and the previous two are enough to get you the death penalty. There's no statute of limitations on murder. Why were you stupid enough to get on a jury, anyway? Surely you could have come up with a lie to get out of it. I can't understand the risk, from your point of view."

Calleigh took a step forward, reminding juror two suddenly of a bobcat, small but fierce. "He was probably enjoying it. You thought your disguise was safe enough, and you got a kick out of sitting there passing judgment on someone else when you had gotten away with your crimes." Her eyes condemned him, showing only disgust, not fear. "He was drunk when he killed. That's not an excuse, but he didn't plot out that night, and he didn't try to run away."

"You, on the other hand," Horatio stated, "are just a liar, a murderer, and a thief. No extenuating circumstances at all. You'll die for this, Montgomery."

"Wrong." The gun never wavered. "Nobody else in here has a gun. You're all going to stand here quietly while I walk out, and I'll take a hostage to make sure of it." He waved the gun at Calleigh. "Come on, smart-aleck. I'll make you afraid of me before this is over."

Calleigh hesitated as Montgomery moved toward her. Horatio didn't hesitate. Like a pouncing tiger, he surged toward Montgomery, his muscles already tensing for what he knew was coming. He couldn't possibly take him out before he was shot, but for Calleigh's sake, he would make damn sure to take him out after. The strength of love would be enough to hold him together that long.

The shot rang through the courtroom, echoed by Calleigh's scream. Horatio slammed into Montgomery, and the bank robber fell backwards as the gun went flying. Calleigh forced her body to chase it even while her mind was frozen in horror. She retrieved the gun and turned back quickly to the fight, bringing the weapon up and ready in one smooth motion as she turned.

There was no need for another shot. As Montgomery and Horatio struggled on the floor, juror five climbed over the barrier out of the box, picked up Montgomery with one hand, and knocked him several feet and into the wall with the force of his punch. Montgomery crumpled against the base of the wall and lay still.

Horatio had collapsed. Calleigh knelt by him, frantically rolling him over, opening his jacket and shirt to find the source of the widening red circle. It was a flesh wound through the shoulder. She thought she was going to pass out in relief but forced herself to keep moving, stripping her own jacket off and wadding it into a pad to press against his shoulder. Horatio pulled back slightly with pain, but his blue eyes were riveted to her face.

"Hold still, you idiot," Calleigh snapped. She added pressure. "We've got to get the bleeding stopped. Has somebody called an ambulance?"

Three people had, as it turned out. A small knot had formed around the bailiff with one man administering first aid to him. His wound looked serious but not fatal. Another knot of people kept a close eye on Montgomery, who was still motionless. The wall was cracked where his head had struck it.

"Is everybody safe?" Horatio managed. The pain in his shoulder was less than the pain he saw in her eyes.

"Yes, we're all safe, thanks to you," Calleigh replied. "Do you realize how easily he could have killed you, Horatio? Didn't you even think about that for a second?"

He had thought about it, actually, and the knowledge made her even more annoyed with him. "I'd die for you any day, Calleigh. You know that."

Still furious in relief, she fired back at him, "And is that all?"

Horatio frowned. "Is that all? What do you mean?"

"Yes, you'd die for me, just like you'd die for any of the team or even for a stranger. But you won't let yourself live for me. Noble Horatio, always at a distance." She forced the pad down more tightly than she meant to, hurting him more, and neither of them noticed. "Can't there ever be anything more with you?"

He stared at her. "I didn't think you wanted it."

Anger abruptly died in promise. "Do you?"

He looked directly back at her, for once not evading. "I haven't wanted anything more for three years."

Calleigh abruptly realized that she had him absolutely pushed into the hard floor with that pad and lightened the pressure a bit. "Neither have I, Handsome," she said softly. She bent over and kissed him, then pulled back as he tried to wrap his arms around her. "No. Not right now. Hold still, or the bleeding will start up again. You're going to the hospital. Time for us later."

"Maybe Alexx could patch it up back at CSI." He was fishing for a rise from her, his blue eyes twinkling. He got one.

"Like hell." She pushed him back to the floor effortlessly. "I'm not about to lose you, not after this."

The EMTs arrived at that moment, and the crowds backed away a bit. Calleigh stayed by Horatio, moving over to allow them access.

Juror two had been an attentive audience to their exchange, but now, he walked over to juror five, who was standing next to Montgomery looking ready to hammer him again if he so much as moved. "Thanks. Nice right hook you've got there."

Juror five smiled at him. "Florida boxing champ, 2002. I guess you never know who you'll find on a jury."

Juror two stared down at Montgomery, then looked away at Horatio and Calleigh. She was holding his good hand, their fingers joined in gentle promise as the EMTs worked on his other shoulder.

Juror five touched his arm. "You okay, man?"

"Just the tension. Quite a day." He abruptly knew what he had to do. He walked over to Calleigh. It had to be her. "Excuse me, ma'am, but do you have a cell phone? The jury had to turn ours in."

She fished hers out and handed it to him automatically without looking away from Horatio. He walked to a fairly uncluttered corner of the room and dialed the number he dialed in his dreams – and in his daydreams.

"Hello?"

He took a deep breath. "Sandy? It's Paul."

"Paul? I thought you were tied up on that jury all week. Is everything okay?"

"Everything's fine now." He paused, then took the jump. "Sandy, I'm through with deliberations. I love you. If you don't love me, just say so, but I have to tell you this."

She hesitated just long enough to kick his heart into double time, and then her answer pushed the beats even faster. "I love you, too."


End file.
